


50 Stellar Cycles

by DJ_Punch_Detective



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams, Gen, I have deicded against hanky panky, Manipulation, Medical Procedures, Nightmares, all tags will be updated, autobot centric, but there may still be ships, gratuitous amounts of propaganda, sleeper agent, sleeper agent au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-01-07 09:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12230328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJ_Punch_Detective/pseuds/DJ_Punch_Detective
Summary: Shockwave evaded detection as 'Longarm' for the equivalent of over 50 human years.  Have you ever wondered how he did it, and what effect he had on the Autobots?





	1. Prologue

“You are leaving?”  He asked, antlers twitching slightly - the only tell of how worried he really was.  “My liege, if you do so… who am I to become?  Longarm… Longarm is a farce, a facade.  I cannot hold up this mask if you go missing!”

“Your concern is noted, Shockwave.”  The other of the two mechs growled, halting Shockwave's spluttered protests.  Even though they were speaking through a screen, Megatron still had a powerful presence - enough to command Shockwave even though the spy’s master was in deep space and he was on Cybertron, masquerading as a weak, pitiful Autobot.  “We have protocols for this.  I know you were hesitant to use them, but if I go missing they will become necessary to keep you undercover.”

“But what if you never return?”  Shockwave asked, tapping his claws together as Megatron narrowed his optics.

“Cease this foolishness, Shockwave.”  He ordered.  “It is unbecoming of you.  If I am missing for more than 50 stellar cycles, General Strika is to assume command and awaken any sleeper agents on Cybertron.  You will not have to disappear until I miss your next message.  If that happens…”

“I shall follow protocol.”  Shockwave completed.  “I shall cease to exist and Longarm will become my identity.  It is as you command.”

“Your concern is understood.”  Megatron said quietly.  “You pride yourself on your mind and your loyalty.  To lose one is to lose the other, and you fear that Shockwave will never reemerge if you let yourself become Longarm.”

“An unfounded fear, I am the one who wrote the subroutine-”

“Shockwave, you are afraid of losing your identity as a Decepticon.”  Megatron interrupted, watching silently as Shockwave’s plating sagged slightly.  Of course Megatron had identified the fear running hot through his lines.  “You pride yourself on your logical function, correct?  There is nothing illogical about being afraid when you know that the being that you exist as currently may need to be destroyed.  Keep a clear processor, and trust in me.  If I miss the next meeting… you know what to do.  Strika will find you if I am offline.  She will lead on in my name, and I expect you to do the same.  If I am to offline, I shall become a martyr for the Cause.  I trust you, Shockwave.  All I ask is that you do the same for me.”

Shockwave lowered his helm for a few moments before looking up to meet Megatron's optics.  He could only ever look at him this directly through a screen, but it was that way for most mechs.  “I… I shall, my Lord.  I shall call back on the next scheduled appointment and if- and if you-”

“If I do not answer…?”  Megatron prompted, and Shockwave offlined his optic.

“I shall become Longarm in mind as well as body.”  Shockwave forced out.  “Shockwave will await your return… as Longarm.  He will not know who or what he truly is.  Just a loyal, naive, little Autobot.”

Shockwave hit his leg as he spoke, trying to stop his voice from shaking.  It was clear he did not want to do this, but he knew that going dormant was the safest way for him to wait for Megatron's return.  This was his contingency plan - the failsafe in case something went horribly wrong.  Shockwave took a few deep vents to calm himself down as he nodded to Megatron.  He'll call his master at the next scheduled time, and Megatron would answer.  The contingency will never be needed.

“Goodbye and good luck.”  Shockwave told him before terminating the call.  In two lunar cycles Shockwave attempted to contact Megatron once more, right on schedule.  Everything was as planned.

And then Megatron didn’t answer, so Shockwave waited.  There were times when he was busy and didn’t immediately pick up.

The call failed to connect.  Shockwave nervously tapped his claws on the console before trying again.

The call failed to connect.  Immediately, Shockwave hung up and tried again.

The call failed to connect.

The call failed to connect.

The call failed.

The call failed.

Failed.

Failed.

Failed.

 

Shockwave would’ve liked to say he had responded with the calm air he always attempted to uphold.  He would’ve liked to say that he acknowledged what needed to be done without fear.  Instead, he had stared at the blank screen for most of the night, lost in denial, before trying to call one last time, reading over the error message since all the previous times he had attempted to call, his processor had refused to accept what he saw.   _ Contact systems offline.  Personal commlink offline.   _

That would only happen if the contingency was needed.  Strika didn’t have the correct encryption codes for Shockwave to be able to contact her… He staggered backwards and slumped to the ground, pulling out an innocent-looking data slug out of his subspace.  Carefully, Shockwave turned the black rectangular prism in his claws, tracing the edges and watching as the lights on the side glowed faintly, showing that there was information stored safely inside of it.  A heavy vent ran through his frame, and Shockwave set the data slug on the ground to transform into Longarm.  It seemed larger in Longarm’s smaller hands, but he continued to hesitate.

His reluctance wasn’t surprising, even to himself.  One last steadying vent, and Shockwave transformed back some of his helm plating, putting the data slug to his helm and starting the download.  Panic set in almost immediately afterward, but his frame had gone into medical override, just as he designed it.  What was effectively a virus ran hot through his processor, encrypting and packaging memories, personality components, thoughts, feelings… what made Shockwave himself.  Everything was stored away, and new memories were written in the place of the ones removed.

Doll-like artificial optics and true optic alike were blown pure white with the force of the virus, and the data slug fell from his helm as his plating reverted to his new ‘root mode’.  Slowly, the glow faded from his optics, and Longarm fell face-first onto the ground, unconscious.

Shockwave was no more.


	2. Agent Longarm

Waking up felt like crawling out from a pit of tar.  Warmth tickled at his plating, but it wasn’t enough to activate any warnings and unconsciousness clung tight to his processor.  Someone was clearly talking, but he wasn’t able to process it as anything other than a voice.  Forcing his optics open took almost too much effort, but doing so allowed him a quick glimpse of where he was.  Everything remained hazy, but the voice he was hearing was starting to turn into words that he could understand.

“...unsure of the cause, but Longarm should be waking up soon.”  Someone was saying, and Longarm blinked a few times to try and get his optics to work.  He really needed to learn the designations of the medical staff, but he could’ve sworn he recognized them from somewhere… their voice was feminine, but he couldn’t place her.

“Well, I’m going to give him a talking-to once he does!”  Oh, Primus, that was Sentinel Prime.  Longarm shut his optics again and decided to pretend he was still unconscious until he left, but a  _ tsk _ from the medical officer caused him to open his optics.

“I can tell you’re awake, Longarm.”  She said, and Longarm offered her a weak smile.  “Do you know what happened?”

“I- No.”  Longarm replied, rubbing his optics and trying to sit up.  The medic stopped him from doing so and adjusted his berth so he was in a sitting position.  “I… I was in my room and… and then everything goes blank.  What happened?”

“You had a seizure, as far as we can tell.  Cliffjumper found you unconscious in the commons holding a data slug.”  She said, offering it out to Longarm.  “We’ve already identified the cause.  You have latent warframe coding - just enough of it is active that it makes it difficult for you to run on normal energon rations.  I guess that’s why you were always snacking - your frame needs less purified energon to run properly.  It also explains why a crane would have such dense armor plating.  We almost couldn’t scan you.”

A strange sense of relief washed over Longarm for a moment - the sort of relief one feels when they get away with something, or otherwise avoid detection.  He puzzled over the sensation for only a moment, before it slipped away and was replaced by anxiety.  Warframe coding?  In  _ him _ ?  He looked down at himself, the stocky minibot frame causing a moment of confusion - he was probably still a little disoriented.  It took Longarm a couple tries to speak, and the medic handed him a cube with a straw in it.

“Thank you… Red Alert.”  Ah, that was her name.  He took another sip to give himself time to set up his thoughts before speaking.  “What… does it mean that I have warframe coding?  Aren’t most warframes… Decepticons?”

Red Alert’s smile was reassuring, and she patted Longarm’s shoulder before shaking her helm.  “Most, but not all.  Our current Magnus is a warframe… all it really means is that your frametype is a little different from most minibots and since you have denser armor, the fully filtered standard rations aren’t actually the healthiest option for you.  In order for your frame to properly maintain itself, your energon needs some natural impurities in it.”  Red Alert frowned slightly and looked down at Longarm for a moment.  “Remind me of your hot spot and batch number?”

“I - Tarn, batch number T32-07412003-D19”  Longarm said automatically before looking away from Red Alert with a sigh.  “I know, I know… This is why I was… apprehensive.  The last mechanism the Tarnian hot spot spat out to get any recognition was, well,  _ Megatron _ .”

“Your hot spot doesn’t mean anything, Longarm.”  Red Alert said as she tapped on a datapad.  “Just where your  _ sentio metallico _ formed.  Just… Don’t hide this information from the medical staff, okay?  It’s important.”

Longarm nodded, looking a bit abashed.  Bias against warframes was something he had seen a considerable amount of, ranging from being denied housing because a frame type was ‘inherently destructive’ to Ultra Magnus’ latest round of propaganda - which seemed to imply Autobots and Decepticons were different species of Cybertronians.  Though he was no geneticist, Longarm knew enough about Cybertronian anatomy to know for a fact that that was simply untrue.  The very implication that they were something different - something…  _ other-  _ made Longarm’s tanks churn, although he could never determine  _ why _ .  Even if he knew, there wasn’t anything he could actually  _ do _ about it.  Yes, he was a graduate from the Elite Guard, but he had yet to even be promoted to the rank of Minor… which was exceedingly frustrating.  At least his other classmates were experiencing the same sort of difficulties he was - except for Bulkhead.  Some thought he set his sights too low with being a space-bridge technician, but it was a more than respectable job.  Longarm possessed a certain amount of distaste for the whole ‘cog in the machine’ rhetoric that was popular with the Magnus, but he still respected jobs like that.  Not to mention that he had managed to look at Bulkhead’s tests and knew for a fact that the large mech tested as a genius.  It was likely some form of kinship, now that Longarm thought about it - they both displayed traits that would single them out as being… different.  Bulkhead was awkward in motion and seemed to have some sensory issues, and Longarm rarely made optic contact or facial expressions.

“... Longarm!”  Red Alert shouted, causing Longarm to jolt out of his thoughts.  “I asked you if you were feeling better.  Look over my shoulder while I check your optics.”

Longarm resigned himself to the basic tests to make sure he was functioning properly.  Fortunately, the only issue seemed to be a few deficiencies so Longarm was allowed to go free with an adjusted set and schedule of rations.  He got maybe halfway to the Intelligence Offices before someone stopped him.  The shout of his name was loud and obnoxious, and Longarm closed his optics and took a steadying vent before turning to look at the mech who had shouted.

“Sentinel Minor,” Longarm said, not quite meeting his optics as he greeted him.  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”   
“Actually, it’s Sentinel  _ Major _ now.  I finally got a promotion after dealing with newbuilds and new recruits for a fraggin’ millenia.”  Sentinel said, smirking down at Longarm.  “I finally get to go to the Outer Rim.”

“Ah, the last frontier of the endless war we have been plunged into, sending Cybertron into a military dictatorship designed to sway weak minds.”  Longarm said flatly before tensing.  Why did he just say that?  It wasn’t too difficult for Longarm to cover, he just started weaving compliments and Sentinel seemed to forget his snide comment.

“Whatever, Longarm.  You wouldn’t know anything about it anyway - you’re what, an intelligence clerk?  You’re not even an officer yet!”

“Yet.”  Longarm repeated testily, optics narrowing slightly as he glared at Sentinel.  “It takes longer to progress through the ranks of the intelligence division.”

“I doubt you’d make Major.”  Sentinel countered, leaning over Longarm and blocking his path, smirking when the minibot turned away from him, visibly tense.  “In fact, I dare you to try and make Prime.  Longarm Prime.  That just sounds stupid, doesn’t it?”

“No worse than Sentinel Magnus.”

It was barely muttered, but Sentinel seemed to blanche at that.  His mouth moved silently before he ended up just saying something that Longarm honestly didn’t bother listening to.  When the blue mech stomped off, Longarm became aware of another presence and turned sharply, still on edge.  Relief washed over him when he saw it was just Perceptor.

“Sentinel-Major-was-out-of-line.”  Perceptor told him.  “Longarm-is-highly-competent.  Highbrow-Prime-has-requested-your-presence.  I-did-not-ask-for-what.   I-was-told-to-find-you-on-my-way-back-to-the-science-department.”

“Ah- thank you, Perceptor.” Longarm gave him a sort of half-smile.  He liked Perceptor, despite the scientist’s idiosyncrasies.  There was a rumor flying around that he had actually gone through and deleted all of his own emotions, but Longarm was doubtful that there was any truth to it.  No, what was far more likely was that Perceptor was similar to him and Bulkhead and possessed a divergent processor that the Autobot Council, for whatever reason, didn’t want to acknowledge existed.  What happened next was not something Longarm expected.  Perceptor gave him a once-over before holding out his hand.

“I-look-forward-to-working-with-you-in-the-future.”  He said while Longarm stared at his hand for a few moments before taking it and shaking his hand firmly.  It was common knowledge that their two divisions worked together frequently, but he wasn’t expecting Perceptor to say anything like that.

“... As do I.”  Longarm said, letting go of Perceptor’s hand and walking into the intelligence offices to find Highbrow Prime.  Finding him was relatively easy - the mech was in his office, as per usual.  What was  _ un _ usual was the number of mecha in the office with him.  Anxiety began to bubble in Longarm’s tanks as he slowly came forward to stand at attention in the middle of the room.  He wasn’t used to seeing this many high-ranking intelligence officers in one place.  In fact, taking a quick look around the room, Longarm counted almost all of his superiors.  There were only two options as to why this many mechanisms were in the same place - one was that he was going to be promoted and the other was that he was going to be fired.

“Longarm, we’ve been reviewing your work so far.”  Highbrow began, before looking up and offering him a smile.  “Oh, please - sit.”

So Longarm sat, tension evident on every line of his surprisingly dense frame.  That was probably where the warframe coding came in, he mused for a moment before turning his attention back to Highbrow Prime.

“You seem to be quite the diligent worker.  Despite your… medical troubles-”

“I promise I will complete any and all assignments I was on!”  Longarm interrupted.  “Red Alert said I’m fine now, so there shouldn’t be any… issue…?”

Highbrow had raised his hand to silence the mech in front of him.  “There is no need for that.  In fact, you were considerably  _ ahead _ in most of your work.  I have talked it over with your superiors, and we have agreed that your talents are being wasted at your current security clearance.  Of course, Cybertron Intelligence has different rankings than the Elite Guard does, so you’ll have to wait a bit longer before you can start signing your datapads with Longarm  _ Minor _ , but  _ congratulations _ .  You are now officially an officer of Cybertronian Intelligence…  _ Agent _ Longarm.”

“Thank you, Highbrow Prime, sir.”  Longarm said, standing to salute him.  The other officers started to file out as Highbrow stood, looking at Longarm appraisingly.

“You won’t be thanking me once you hear about your assignment.”  Highbrow vented.  “Do you remember the traitor that Bumblebee discovered amongst your class?”

“Yes, sir.  Wasp, standard minibot build, green and yellow-green paint, normal blue optics, possessed natural weaponry colloquially referred to as ‘stingers’ and was quite adept at using them.”  Longarm rattled off.  “He was stripped of his Autobrand and taken to a holding facility, where he was held until he was tried for and convicted of treason, and sent to Trypticon prison.”

“Impressive.”  Highbrow said, smiling at Longarm.  “Your attention to detail… really is as defined as the reports you submit seemed to be.  Ahem, but do you know the issue related to Wasp’s conviction?”

“Yes sir.  He has maintained his innocence for over about… 12 stellar cycles.”  Longarm said, looking down at his hands and starting to press his digits together.  “His trial is one of the longest in recent Cybertronian history as a result.”

“Which is why we’re sending you to Trypticon to talk to him.”  Highbrow said smoothly.  “He doesn’t know of your involvement with Bumblebee’s exposure of him, and of all of his classmates you’re the only one who looks… non threatening enough.”

“Highbrow Prime, I just found out that I am essentially part warframe.”  Longarm said, still not looking up, but now messing with the rubber of his treads.  “Are you certain that I am the best choice for this?”

“Of course you are,” growled the Prime.  “Think about it.  You could  have easily become victim to the lies of the Decepticons.  Anyone could’ve… but you?  The way you look at the world is so different from everyone else.  The difference between you and Wasp is that you know what is best for Cybertron.  You know that it’s best to fit into the grand machine that is our society.”

That little speech made Longarm feel like his spark had been frozen, and he began rocking in his seat slightly as he listened.  Yes, he had to fit in.  Nobody could know.   _ Know what _ ?  Longarm asked himself, receiving no answer.  Controlling his venting and forcing them to stay even, he looked up from his lap up at Highbrow, arranging his faceplate in a smile.  It almost felt wrong, and he found a place just above Highbrow’s optics to look at instead of trying to meet them.  

“You’re right, sir.”  Longarm said.  “We’re all just cogs in the Autobot machine, after all.”

“Exactly.”  Highbrow beamed at Longarm before dismissing him.  Somehow, parroting what he was well-aware was just propaganda made it feel like the bottom of his tanks had just dropped out.  He stopped to pick up his datapad and a small handful of snacks, checking his schedule.  They were sending him to Trypticon within the next seven cycles, which gave him enough time to properly recover and prepare.  It was likely they were going to brief him further once they were on the transport from Fortress Maximus to Trypticon, but it seemed like the best option for Longarm to prepare some questions to ask Wasp beforehand.  Since Highbrow had mentioned ‘nonthreatening’ it was likely that Longarm was to play the role of a friend to Wasp to try and get the information out of him, so that was something to keep in mind while he was writing questions.  In fact, if they were sending him in so he could ‘just talk’ to Wasp, then he should try and keep his questions as subtle as possible.

Touching his faceplate was an unfortunate tic, and Longarm was trying to chew on his blunt digits as he thought.  If he wasn’t chewing on his hands, then he was probably chewing on a stylus, rust stick, or something else.  Fortunately, that habit stifled his other unfortunate habit - muttering to himself while he thought.  Even with his digits in his mouth, Longarm was mumbling as he walked, optics fixed on his datapad.  He usually tried to look up from time to time, but now that he had a new assignment after a few weeks of what was mostly other people’s paperwork he was quite distracted.  So Longarm had no clue that he was about to bump into someone until he did, and because of his dense armor, the other mechanism fell backwards - clearly alarmed and spluttering out a mess of profanity and angry words.  Most of it Longarm honestly couldn’t understand the mech was talking so fast, but he stowed his datapad in his subspace and offered his hand out to help him up.

“You  _ really  _ need to watch where you’re going!”  The blue mech grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest - clearly a racer frame, and he had spoken so fast it almost sounded like one word.  Longarm was looking at the Elite Guard wings on either side of the mech’s Autobrand and internally kicking himself.

“My apologies… sir?”  Longarm said, letting go of his hand once he was standing.  The other mech gave him a  _ very _ quick once-over before he started talking at a rapid-fire pace again.

“I am Agent Blurr, and you are Agent Longarm, and although we have the same title I believe that I still outrank you so calling me sir was the best choice -- although looking where you were going would have been better.”  He said, seemly in one vent.  Longarm stared at him while he processed what was said, and as soon as he stopped looking completely lost, Blurr started back up again.  “I just got the update to your ranking, and wanted to introduce myself.  The majority of agents have not met each other before, and there is no publicly available list of us because of security.  Is it true that you already have your first official assignment?”

“News travels quickly in the intelligence division, eh?”  Longarm asked, before nodding.  “I have, yes.  I do not know if I am permitted to share the details though.”

“I do not expect you to.”  Blurr told him, offering his hand out to Longarm.  “I merely wished to congratulate you since not many agents receive their first real assignment until at least a lunar cycle after they have been promoted so it is rather likely that your assignment is one of **_significant_ ** importance.”

This was more hands than Longarm had ever shaken in one day before, and he was still reeling from the fact that Blurr’s speech had actually accelerated.  Mutely, he shook Blurr’s hand before the blue mech stepped out of Longarm’s way and zoomed off, leaving an afterimage in Longarm’s optics.  Today had been an exceedingly long day and it was barely past 1400 hours, but Longarm’s schedule had been cleared so he could properly recover and prepare for his upcoming mission.  Despite his atheist-leaning beliefs, Longarm found himself sending a quiet thanks to Primus when the walk back to his quarters were uneventful.


	3. To Trypticon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agent Longarm's first mission begins

Approximately four cycles later, at 0100 hours, Longarm’s internal chronometer woke him from a… rather bizarre dream.  The details were fading fast, but he certainly remembered being much taller than he was now, and he unconsciously (and unnecessarily) ducked as he went through the doorway into the communal washracks.  Stifling a yawn, Longarm turned on the solvent spray and began cleaning his frame off - thankful he was alone so he could use all the hot solvent without being yelled at later since he was being shipped out on mission in about another hour and a half.  The more discretion was needed, the earlier the transport was scheduled for, it seemed.  Once he was clean Longarm stretched his back, popping struts back into place before he tested his ability.  The stretching of limbs always felt a little strange, not quite into the pain range, but like transforming after being stuck in traffic in your alt for a while.  He had never fully tested the extent to which he could stretch - there had been no need to.  Once he was satisfied that he was functioning properly, Longarm left Fortress Maximus to head to the transport bay.

“Agent Longarm.”  One of the guards greeted him, and Longarm only grunted in response before taking an empty seat and closing his optics.  Trypticon was all the way in Kaon, and Fortress Maximus was a part of Iacon’s military sector - and spacebridge use had been restricted to emergency use only.  He could probably nap, except…

“Agent Longarm!”  A voice piped up, one he recognized, and one he was entirely too tired to deal with at the moment.  Opening one optic, Longarm saw Blurr almost literally vibrating in his seat.  “I was unaware that we were being assigned to the same mission.  If that were the case I would have made more of an effort to be polite to you during our meeting in the hallway - even if it was technically your fault since you weren’t looking where you were going.  Either way, what is your frametype that results in such dense armor?  Are you military class?”

“Civilian industrial,” yawned Longarm, raising his hand to cover his mouth.  “Sorry.  ‘S early for me.  M’ alt’s a crane.”

“I have not heard of that classification before, although it has been some time since I checked the official Cybertronian taxonomy list.  Perhaps there was an update I was not made aware of.  Communications really needs to work on their announcements if Intelligence Agents are unaware of changes to something as vital as a comprehensive list of frametypes that are currently in-use amongst Autobots, be they civilian or Elite Guard, don’t you agree?”

Longarm didn’t reply.  He had fallen into recharge again and was sagging in his restraints slightly as a soft snore came from his half-open mouth.  Blurr opened and closed his mouth a few times before resigning himself into (offended) silence and tapping his foot against the floor of the transport.  The crane woke up again about halfway to Kaon, and rubbed his optics before shielding his faceplate from the offending light spilling into the transport - Blurr had noticed him moving and opened the blinds to let light in.  They glared at each other for a moment before Blurr spoke.

“It’s rude to fall asleep while someone is speaking with you.”  He said testily, and Longarm groaned loudly.

“Primus, Blurr.  It was 0120 hours, and now it’s what… 0520?”  Longarm asked, rolling his shoulders to loosen up his back strut.  “I usually get up at around 0700 and I didn’t recharge well.  Besides, you know as well as I do that once we get off the transport we’re going to be expected to start our assignment.  Well, my assignment… I don’t know yours.”

“Highbrow Prime thinks it is best to keep it that way,” stated Blurr as he looked out of the window.  Longarm waited for him to say more for a moment, but when he didn’t Longarm felt his expression harden.  He was by no means adept at reading facial expressions or EM fields… but body language was something Longarm was fluent in and the way Blurr was standing - the other agent didn’t trust him.   _ I’ll have to be careful _ , Longarm thought as he narrowed his optics at Blurr for a moment.  He wasn’t sure what he needed to be careful about, but strange thoughts that didn’t seem to fully come from his processor was actually something Longarm was accustomed to.

When Blurr looked back over at Longarm, turning his attention from the passing scenery to the other Agent, Longarm had already arranged his faceplate into a smile as he undid his restraining belt and got up to refuel.  Blurr was next to him again in about a second, watching him with a strange amount of intensity as Longarm got out his ration.  There was a tense moment as Longarm stuck a rust stick in his cube before taking a sip out of it where Blurr opened his mouth to speak.

“Is there something that I can help you with regarding my refueling?”  Longarm asked testily after he swallowed, shuddering slightly.  “I have a medical condition and require a different grade of energon.  The rust stick is because it tastes horrible otherwise.”

“Just making sure you were sticking to your rations.”  Blurr said, voice honey-sweet as he gave Longarm a reassuring smile.  “I can’t have my partner on this assignment be malnourished, now can I?”

He was lying.  Longarm was certain of it, but he let his defensive stance fade and smiled back at Blurr.  “Oh, I suppose you’re right.  I’m sorry I got all defensive.  I’m used to dealing with mechanisms like  _ Sentinel _ .”

Blurr shuddered and made some comment about he was glad he wasn’t a clerk anymore.  A slow vent was released from Longarm’s frame.  The old standby script of ‘bitch about Sentinel’ worked well on just about everyone it seemed.  It had started as his way of making conversation as a recruit, and had never failed him since.  Throughout the rest of the trip, there were no other moments of cold tension between him and Blurr, and Longarm let himself relax slightly.  He sat and read over his datapad and dossier until Blurr gently put a hand on his shoulder.  

“We’re here.”  Blurr said softly as the transport hissed to a stop.  Longarm stood and put his datapad in his subspace before walking to the door and waiting for it to open with Blurr.  He had never been to Trypticon before, but the  _ stories _ he had heard about the place were more than enough.  Built on the old Decepticon capital of Kaon, it supposedly held the most dangerous enemies to the Autobot state and when the transport door opened with a hiss of steam, Longarm got his first glance of the prison.  Although the architecture was similar to Fortress Maximus, there was something undeniably  _ Kaonite _ about the towering structure - a certain brutalistic architecture that seemed to be designed to frighten those who were being marched towards its doors.

It did a good job of that - although Blurr didn’t seem too bothered, but it was likely he had been there before and knew that he could walk in and out freely.  Some part of Longarm was struck with the idea that at some point he would be marched in there and forgotten - which was irrational.  He shook off the cold digits of fear that seemed to be trying to reach down into his spark and squared his shoulders to walk side-by-side with Blurr.  It was strange to realize he was taller than the speedster, but it was probably the fact the blue mech hadn’t been trying to fold in on himself throughout the trip that caused the disconnect.  One of the guards saluted to Blurr when they stopped at the entrance to the prison.

“Agent Blurr, Agent Longarm.  We’ve been waiting for you.”  He said, still at attention for a few seconds before turning on his heel.  “Come.  I can escort you to where you will be working.  Longarm, you are with me - Agent Blurr has other duties.”

“Thank you.”  Longarm said, nodding at him but not bothering to adjust his facial expression.  He had been told many a time that he had ‘resting glitch face’, and he found it a useful asset.  It made him seem aloof and detached - which was actually a benefit to an intelligence agent.  Another useful thing about that was it made people less likely to try and make small talk, so Longarm didn’t have to talk to the prison guard while they walked.

“We already have him in the interrogation room.”  The guard told Longarm once they arrived.  “I’m going to be just on the other side of the window if you need me - and there’s a panic button under the table on your side that - if pressed, will disable the prisoner and call the warden.”

Longarm only nodded to show he understood, placing his hand on the door and waiting until he heard the telltale click of it unlocking to enter the room.  He calmly closed the door behind him before walking forward and sitting across from the mech handcuffed to the table.  A cursory glance told Longarm the other mech was either nervous or like him - not even attempting optic contact and messing with the cord of the cuffs.  Placing his hands on the table, Longarm smiled… the sort of cold smile that never quite reached his optics and unnerved the guilty.  A doll’s smile.

“Hello, Wasp.  It’s been a long time.”  Longarm said, keeping his voice blithe and calm.  “I have some questions for you.”


	4. At Trypticon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Longarm interrogates Wasp to see if what he says is true

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took forever! Life got in the way.

Wasp was not cooperating.  That much was expected.  Blurr watched from behind the mirror, tapping his foot so fast it had become, well, a blur.

“Warden, sir, are you certain that Longarm is the best choice for this job?  I understand that there were some concerns about his behavior, hence why Highbrow decided to send me along to observe his actions, but in a situation like this it is equally possible that he ends up going into a form of shutdown as opposed to revealing himself - if he is truly a Decepticon, then the entire intelligence division and any recruits we have taken on since then will have to be purged and-”  Blurr stopped abruptly when the warden raised his hand.  He looked hurt for about a fraction of a second before looking through the window at Longarm.  “Ah.  He has begun.”

On the other side of the glass, Longarm had decided Wasp had sat there in sullen silence long enough.  A quiet vent escaped him and he slowly slumped back in his seat.  “I’m so sorry, Wasp.”  He said quietly.  “Nobody can make it this long insisting they are innocent without really believing it.  I would love to go over your case, take you back to Iacon - or even Fortress Maximus - to argue for your release with the council, but I  _ can’t _ .  The evidence all pointed to you.”

“I didn’t do it!”  Wasp burst out, standing up so quickly he knocked his chair over, slamming his hands onto the table.  “I- I didn’t.  You have to-  Please, Longarm.  I know you’re…”

Wasp trailed off, and Longarm looked up at him, letting his expression go blank.  “Different, Wasp?”  He asked quietly.  “You think I am jealous of you?  Because you fit in, and it was by sheer luck that I didn’t turn out like Bumblebee?  No.  I pity you, Wasp.”

“Pity?!”  Wasp demanded before he started shouting at Longarm.  The guards in the observation room tensed, but Blurr shook his helm.  Longarm was up to something, and he wanted to see how it would turn out - the intelligence agent didn’t look worried in the slightest… in fact, he looked slightly triumphant as Wasp berated him.  Blurr’s optics narrowed as Longarm took a datapad out and started writing.

“Stop that!”  Wasp snarled.  “What the hell are you doing?!”

“I am writing.”  Longarm replied.  “Specifically, I am writing down your behavioral traits that paint you as a Decepticon.  Did you know that there is a genetic as well as behavioral predisposition to Decepticonism?  You may have come online in Polyhex, in a Polyhexian model protoform… But your spark was harvested from… Vos, I believe.  Or rather, where Vos used to be.”

Wasp looked horrified as Longarm stood up and walked over, setting the datapad down in front of him.  It was a simple enough list, but it was one that every Elite Guard rookie had memorized - the traits of a Decepticon.  Aggression, a desire to stand out, singling out the weak, a belief that they ‘deserved more’, distrust of authority… Wasp pushed it away.

“So?  I am no more Decepticon than you are!”  Wasp snapped at Longarm.  He stopped and reset his optics.  Had the red circle on Longarm’s forehelm just- No.  He was imagining things… But the sad smile Longarm was wearing was all too real.

“Wasp… My friend,” an almost doll-like structure to the smile had begun to take shape - as always when Longarm had to force his expression to remain how he felt it was supposed to be.  “I am currently under investigation for  _ that exact reason _ .  Why else would Highbrow Prime have sent Agent Blurr with me?  Because I think too much like a Decepticon.  Because I was sparked and formed in Tarn.  Because ‘civilian industrial’ frametype is just code for ‘was almost a war frame’.  Because no matter how common they are… most bots with stingers aren’t capable of using them as well as you do without training.”

Longarm put his hand on Wasp’s shoulder, closing his optics and venting quietly.  “I do not think you are a Decepticon.  Not you.  But I can’t let you go, because I know there is a Decepticon somewhere inside your mind.  What we have to do now is find it…”

“And what, get rid of it?!”  Wasp demanded, pushing Longarm away from him.  “If I have one, you sure as slag do!”

“Actually-”  Longarm tapped the side of his helm.  “I did.  They got rid of it.  You know Perceptor?  He had one too.  They can fix bots like us, Wasp.  They can make us fit into the cogs that we need to be.”

The guards were in the room before Wasp could finish his response, pulling him away from Longarm and out, down the hall.  His insistences that he was innocent could be heard echoing, although he didn't sound anywhere near as confident as he used to.  Longarm sighed and sat down on the floor, rubbing his optics - his helm felt like it was pounding, and a strange pressure was behind his optics.

“Did you learn anything?”

The voice belonged to Blurr, and Longarm smiled apologetically at him.  “I did.  Wasp is a lost cause.  He’s convinced himself that he is innocent, and his response to my behavior shows that he is, indeed, a Decepticon at spark.  What a pity.  I hope the science division can actually ‘cure’ him.”

Blurr sat next to Longarm, optics narrowed.  “You… Know more than you should.  In fact, you probably know that the science division’s attempts to cure Decepticonism is simply a cover for the experiments Ultra Magnus authorized.  What you don’t know you are far too good at piecing together, but fortunately for you the intelligence division welcomes abnormal mechanisms primarily because of their divergent thought processes - that being said your ability to shift from persona to persona is highly disturbing and if you were not already under investigation you certainly would be - - by the way, how  _ did  _ you find out?”

“Mostly?  Because you just told me.”  Longarm said with a smirk.  “I took a wild guess and ended up being right.  It’s… Not the first time that has happened.  I’m a divergent mechanism.  I think differently.  I eat differently.  Autobots pride themselves on their unity, but I have always stuck out.  It was… I would have been surprised if I wasn’t under investigation, honestly.”

“And you do not mind?  I know that I personally would be incredibly offended if I discovered that my superior officers thought that I was a Decepticon.  In fact, I might be so offended that I would actually consider attempting to join their forces despite my Autobot frametype and training.”  Blurr said, and Longarm rolled his optics.

“Blurr.  I know exactly what you’re doing.”  He said.  “You’re trying to get me to admit to being a Decepticon.  I’m… I’m not sure what I am.  I just… want the best for Cybertron and its people.  I can’t say I’m a Decepticon because… I’m not one, but there are times when the Autobrand doesn’t quite feel right.  I’m just… I want the best for Cybertron.”

Blurr looked at Longarm for a good long while while the mech fidgeted with his hands before reaching down to absently trace the edges of the Autobrand.  He could tell that, even with the slight monotone that Longarm’s voice could take on, he was being completely earnest.  Longarm didn’t know where he fit in.  Blurr patted his shoulder, giving him a gentle smile.

“Then you are an Autobot.”  Blurr said before straightening up.  “Now hurry up and stop moping about, we both have reports to write about our respective missions.  I will be alerting Highbrow Prime to the fact that you were able to extrapolate what my mission was, but I have received an assurance that you are, in fact, an Autobot.  There is a certain degree of disloyalty expected among intelligence agents, given the nature of our work, but you appear to be within the norm.  Your ability to think like a Decepticon should prove to be extremely helpful if you ever spend a tour in the Outer Rim.”

Longarm looked up at Blurr.  “They only send Minors, Majors, and Primes out there.”  He said quietly.  “You think I have a chance?”

“It might take a while, but… Yes.”  Blurr said, offering him a smile.  “Yes, I think you do.”


	5. Another Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since Longarm returned from Trypticon. Perhaps today something interesting will happen...

Longarm rolled out of berth, optics bleary as he stumbled to turn off his alarm.  There was a strange pressure on his frame that he was starting to worry about, but he simply hadn’t had the time to visit the medical offices - being the newest Intelligence Agent apparently meant he was mostly just doing paperwork for his superiors on top of his own, which was irritating but Longarm wasn’t going to complain.  So he just stretched out his frame, using his ability to expand some things - listening to his back struts pop and venting quietly in relief before tucking his armor back close to his frame.  He looked into the mirror in his quarters - the only real decoration in his otherwise stark quarters.  Very few mecha ever saw the inside of Longarm’s room - Ironhide was probably the only one, and that was only because he had helped Longarm back to his quarters when they were both too overcharged to be trusted alone.  Nothing had happened between them - but they had woken up in the same berth and were subject to rumors for the next few moments.

Now, though, Longarm just looked tired.  He rubbed his faceplate, optics narrowed slightly.  Something… Something felt  _ wrong _ about his frame.  His hands rubbed along his faceplate again, digging into his cheeks before they slid back into his arms - claws emerging from a panel on the sides of his arms and starting to tear at his faceplate, chunks falling away under the sharp points until there was nothing left but the red circle on his forhelm… and it started to glow, a slitted pupil rolling forward and-

Longarm fell out of berth and onto the floor with an undignified squawk.  His spark was hammering in his chest, and he reached up to touch his cheek.  There was a scrape along the mesh, a small trickle of energon starting to well up.  He checked his hands - paranoia from his already fading dream, but there wasn’t anything sharp on his digits.  Stumbling over to the mirror, Longarm checked over his frame.  There was a throbbing in his processor, and the mirror was askew.  His mouth tasted like stale enjex, and… He looked over at his berth, quietly venting in relief when he saw nobody else was there.  The previous night there had been a fairly large celebration - one of the other Intelligence agents had received a promotion to Minor, and they were giving him a proper send-off at Maccadam’s Old Oil House.

So Longarm was going in to the office horribly hungover and with a basic patch over his cheek.  Fortunately, most of the office was  _ also _ hungover - even Blurr was down to single syllables and grunts.  Cliffjumper was about the only one who wasn’t, and that was mostly because he was able to drink his weight in enjex and be fine.  Longarm basically collapsed into his desk next to him and put his helm down on the table, groaning long and low before pushing himself up to look at Cliffjumper, who looked somewhat bemused.

“Did I walk into something last night?”  He asked, and Cliffjumper snorted loudly.

“Yes.  Yes you did.”  Cliffjumper replied.  “You also punched Agent Blurr in the face and declared yourself leader of the Decepticons twice, and the new Magnus once.”

He then dissolved into laughter while Longarm put his helm back on the desk and groaned loudly.  Someone shushed him, and Highbrow came out of his office to address the group.

“I get that we’re all extremely hungover except for our dear Agent Cliffjumper, who might be an Outlier with simultaneously the most useless and useful power, but we still have work to do.”  He said, nodding while Cliff stood and was clapped at until Longarm forced him back into his chair.  “Now, I am too hungover to give a proper pep talk, so I shall end this with a time-honored classic: get back to work.  Longarm, Cliffjumper, please come with me to my office.  There is an assignment that calls for your specific skill sets.”

Cliffjumper pretty much immediately bounced out of his seat, while Longarm groaned for a few seconds before standing and walking with Highbrow into his office.  The Prime offered the two mechs painkillers - Longarm took both before anyone could stop him - before they sat down across from each other and Highbrow steepled his digits in front of him.  If it was before Longarm’s promotion and first assignment, he would’ve squirmed nervously, but instead he was distracted by a mark on one of his digits.  Cliffjumper had turned the chair backwards and was supporting his chest with the front of it - Longarm was briefly reminded of one of his teachers at the Academy who had spent a little too much time trying to connect with the younger students.

“So, what is our assignment, Highbrow Prime?”  Longarm asked, not looking up from his hands.  The Prime knew him well enough to know that even if Longarm wasn’t apparently fixated on the smudge on his hand, he would still likely either be looking at the floor, wall, or pretty much anywhere but the faces of the other mechanisms in the room.

“Technically it is Cliffjumper’s assignment, but ever since the incident with the statue, he has to travel in pairs.”  Highbrow replied, shaking his helm and then wincing.  Cliffjumper made an indignant noise, while Longarm only chuckled quietly.  It was mostly just a joke - all intel agents were sent out in pairs unless someone was going undercover.  They just weren’t always on the same assignment.  “The dossier has been sent to both of your work datapads.  Cliffjumper, you are dismissed.  Longarm… I need to talk with you a little more.”

A pat on the arm was all Cliffjumper gave Longarm by way of a farewell as he stood to leave Highbrow’s office.  Longarm waited in silence, glancing up from the floor to look at Highbrow’s face for a few moments before dropping his optics back to the ground.  “Am I correct in assuming that I have a seperate assignment?”

“You are.”  Highbrow replied.  “This one, I am required to give to you verbally.  We lost contact with a criminal informant in the same area as Cliffjumper’s mission.  Due to your performance at Trypticon, High Council has agreed that you would be the best option to find out what happened to them.”

“You need someone who can think like they do.”  Longarm translated.  “And I am the only one who has displayed that ability while still being trusted enough to be loyal to the Autobots.”

“Exactly.”  Highbrow’s smile was cold.  “You have displayed an understanding of our propaganda and rhetoric very few are capable of doing.  I wouldn’t be surprised if you were to be authorized to read some rudimentary Decepticon texts in a few years.  Maybe make Minor after that.  I doubt you have the drive to make it to Major, though.”

“Highbrow Prime, Sir.”  Longarm said quietly, looking up and meeting his optics for the first time in that meeting.  “I have difficulty with social situations.  That does not mean you have the right to speak to me as if I am something lesser than yourself.  It would also do you well to not underestimate me.  Pardon my harsh language, but I have dealt with too much of this slag to allow anyone - even a superior officer - to speak to me in that way.”

The Prime looked shocked as Longarm stood, optics burning with a cold fire rarely seen.  He opened his mouth to speak, but Longarm raised his hand.  “I was not finished.  You do not know what goes on in my processor.  To assume that I possess or lack the drive to do something is presumptuous, rude, and something that you will likely come to regret.”

Highbrow looked like he was fuming - opening and closing his mouth while Longarm stared him down.  It was so rare for him to speak up like this, or even for him to look at someone’s faceplate - let alone the sort of prolonged optic contact that Longarm was now giving him.  As they stared at each other, Longarm’s upper lip curled slightly into the barest hit of a snarl before he spoke one last time.  “You do not get to decide who I am.”  He hissed before taking the dossier with his name on it and leaving the Prime’s office.

Cliffjumper was staring at Longarm as he left the office.  His expression was still one of rage - glowering at the room before arranging his faceplates into something more presentable at Cliffjumper’s look.  The red mech gestured towards the door slightly with the dossier he was given, and Longarm simply nodded in response as they left the office.  That cold rage was still coursing through his lines, and his hands shook slightly as he gripped his dossier until Cliffjumper patted his arm.

“Highbrow can be a real crankshaft.”  Cliff said, nodding sagely while Longarm barked out a short laugh that was hastily transformed into a hacking cough.

“Did you hear any of it?”  Longarm asked, curiosity getting the better of him, and his friend simply shrugged.

“I mean.  Neither of you were shouting, so not really.  You were just making a facial expression for once.”  He said, starting to read while walking.  “I just kinda figured that he said something insensitive.  Y’know how most minibots are stereotyped as being stupid?  He made a few comments when I first started… and I mean yeah, it took me longer than average to graduate and start working for the intelligence division, but it was still uncalled for.”

“Mm.  Do I really not usually make facial expressions?”  Longarm asked, earning himself a gentle smack on the arm.

“Were you even listening?”  Cliff asked, although his tone and smirk made it clear that he was joking.  “Primus, Longarm.  Are you really that unaware of the rumors about you?  Some of the stuff you apparently said at Trypticon was spread around… about you having an ‘inner Decepticon’ or whatever.  I saw some new recruits trying to ask Perceptor about the ‘process’ he went through and he just stared at them until they got creeped out and left him alone.”

“I like Perceptor.”  The taller of the two commented.  “I hope he doesn’t mind I said that.  He’s just a good example of nonstandard behavior being permitted amongst the Autobots, and there are enough rumors about him and his behavior… and he was investigated for Decepticon-like behavior when he was younger.”

“You get to look at those records?”  Cliffjumper asked, impressed.  He had finished skimming over the information for his mission, and was heading for the transports.  Longarm followed, pressing his lip-plates together before speaking - although Cliffjumper cut him off once he got a glimpse of Longarm’s face.  “Oh.  You hacked your way in.  Just because you don’t make facial expressions doesn’t mean I can’t read you.”

“How do they expect us to be effective agents if they do not share any of their coveted information?”  Longarm asked, sarcasm heavy in his rhetorical question while Cliffjumper chuckled, getting on a transport bound for Vos - the Decepticon portion had been torn down, but the city itself still stood as a bit of a tourist attraction.  “By the way… if you don’t mind me asking, why are you capable of judging my expressions so well?”

“I had a batchmate who was a lot like you.”  Cliffjumper admitted quietly, sitting down while Longarm remained standing, holding on to one of the poles.  “He- I don’t know what happened to him, but he was chirolinguistic only.  He had all the equipment to speak, but he just… never did.  I learned how to talk to him, but nobody else seemed to bother to.  I hate to think about it… but he probably got labelled as defective and-”

Longarm reached over and put his hand on Cliffjumper’s shoulder, squeezing slightly when the other mech’s vox cut out.  It was one of Autobot High Command’s best-kept secrets that they controlled at least some of the protoform production.  Only high-ranking Intelligence Agents, Longarm, Cliffjumper, and anyone who was taken away really seemed to know.  Longarm knew because he kept hacking into the Autobot’s database when he got curious about something he shouldn’t know, and Cliffjumper seemed to have personal experience.

“Cliff… May I ask you something personal?”  Longarm asked.  There were enough other people on the transport that their conversation would be lost in the crowd.  When Cliffjumper nodded, Longarm took a vent before speaking again.  “Why be an Intel Agent?  Why work for the Council?”

“Is your assignment to investigate me?”  Cliffjumper snorted before answering.  “It’s because… I want to help people like my batchmate.  I want to try and change things from the inside.  I know I’d have to be a Prime to even start… but…”

Longarm nodded.  “I understand.  You’re a good mech, Cliff.  You and I… We both want what’s best.  Blurr told me my desire to do what’s best makes me an Autobot.  Of course… I’m not investigating you, because they don’t let friends investigate each other because you and I both know I would lie about it.”

“Are you sure you’re an Autobot?”  Cliff replied, a shaky smile on his faceplate as the transport shuddered to a stop - the spires of Vos clearly visible now.  There were a few more stops to go, and Longarm could already feel the sensory overload he was bound to get while in Vos start to prickle at his processor.  Still, he chuckled and took the now-open seat next to Cliffjumper, twisting to stare out the window.  His helm was reflected slightly, a faint outline of himself projected onto the twisting spires and bridges of Vos.  The city was clearly initially built with fliers in mind, but most recent construction was focused on accessibility - making sure the ground-bound Autobots were still capable of exploring the city.  Streets and doorways were still wide, although they seemed to be designed more so that winged mechanisms could walk side-by-side with minimal collisions than so grounders could walk or drive places.  The thing that really set Vos apart was the lighting.  Iacon and Fortress Maximus were sprawling cities - lit by the faint blue of regulation standard lighting and white lights of traditional streetlamps with large swaths of darkness when one burnt out.  Vos… glittered.  Its towers were lit from every angle, reds and yellows twisting together to bathe the city in amber light - turning even the plainest metal golden.  Neon lights winked from every wall, and all manner of Autobot could be seen talking and heading for the casinos.  Longarm’s observations were cut short as the transport slid into a tunnel - darkness swallowing the window as he turned to Cliffjumper.

“How in the Pits did you get the cushy assignment?”  He asked, while Cliffjumper merely rolled his optics.  “I’m serious!  What do you have to do - help them count their shanix?”

“I’m working as a secondary guard, Longarm!”  Cliff protested, slapping at Longarm without putting much effort into it.  “People keep complaining about stuff getting stolen.  The Council just wants to make sure it’s just people whining about casinos instead of, like… an actual thief.”

“You’ve still got the cushy job.”  Longarm grumbled, crossing his arms as the transport hissed to a stop.  An automated voice came over the intercom, announcing that they had officially arrived in Vos.


	6. In Vos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Longarm and Cliffjumper have their respective missions in the City of Vos

Idly, Longarm wondered how Cliffjumper’s mission was going.  It had to be better than his, since currently Longarm was in an unknown location with a blindfold on and energon dripping slowly out of the corner of his mouth - arms twisted behind him and tied together behind his back.  As long as he didn’t move it wasn’t painful, but even though it was possible for his arms to bend in that way that didn’t mean they were supposed to.  Granted, it was mostly Longarm’s fault that he was in this situation at all - walking into the seedy underbelly of Vos while wearing the triple chevron of the elite guard and asking questions about a missing CI was a good way to get yourself attacked.  Which is what happened.  He was a much more adept fighter than any of his assailants expected, which was certainly helpful in making it out alive but when it comes down to numbers, there is only so much that can be done.  So Longarm wound up captive with a blindfold wrapped around his helm, and some injures.  He could hear footsteps and quiet mutterings as his captors discussed what to do before he heard the sound of a door sliding open and a very  _ distinctive _ voice spoke.

“Woah, hey.  That is no way to treat a  _ paying customer _ , now is it?”  The voice asked, and Longarm felt his arms slowly becoming untied.  He retracted them as soon as he was able and pulled off the blindfold to look up at the perpetually grinning faceplate of Swindle.  He vented, wiped the energon off of his faceplate, and sat up a little straighter as Swindle pulled up a chair and plopped into it, steepling his digits and flashing Longarm a million-shanix smile.  “What can I do you for?  You’re an intelligence agent, right?  Am I correct in assuming you were sent to find me?”

“I was sent to find a criminal informant.”  Longarm replied, tilting his helm slightly.  “Am I correct in assuming said missing CI is you?”

“Guilty as charged!”  Swindle replied with a boisterous laugh.  Longarm decided he hated him, but only a little bit.  “There’s only so much the Autobot Council can offer though, so my next few answers really depend on what you’re offering me.  You were sent to find me.  That usually implies bringing me back.  But you see, I have received a  _ far better _ offer than anything the Council has ever given me.  So.  What is it that  _ you _ can offer me?”

“Is this an interrogation, or a business transaction?”  Longarm countered, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms.  It really was remarkable how much the atmosphere changed with Swindle’s arrival.  He narrowed his optics slightly as Swindle crossed his legs and raised an optic ridge, still all smiles and business.  “You… Have no need for our shanix, do you?  What better offer could you have received… They call you a criminal informant, but I am fairly certain that you have at least some of the Council on your payroll, or at least in your subspace.  What is it that you want that the Council cannot give you?”

Swindle’s smile twitched slightly, and he leaned forward, large optics narrowing slightly as his smile faded into something closer to a smirk.  So the rumors were true.  Or at least, they seemed to be… but he doubted that that mecha would be this good of an actor.  With a wave of his hand, Swindle dismissed the guards before standing up and walking over to Longarm, crouching down in front of him.

“Now then, are you going to drop the act, or are we going to have to do this the hard way?”  Swindle asked, and Longarm simply stared at him, letting his expression go blank.  Swindle frowned, but waited for Longarm to speak.

“Name your price.”  Longarm said simply.  “I don’t know what act you speak of.”

“You want to know what the council can’t give me that the other offer does?”  He countered, standing back up.  “The council wants to keep me here.  I want a way  _ off world _ .  There aren’t that many business opportunities here.  But  _ you’re _ here, Autobot, and so is your friend.  Which makes things a little bit difficult for me.  So, what do you say… we cut a deal?”

As he spoke, Swindle leaned closer to Longarm until he was just about cheek-to-cheek with the crane, his salesmech smile returning.  A dataslug was produced seemingly out of nowhere and held out to Longarm before being snatched away as he tried to reach out for it.

“Ah- Not so fast.”  Swindle said.  “Let’s think… I give you this dataslug - which contains the recent troop movements in the Outer Rim… and you say you found me, but ultimately I escaped.  Or something.  You can make up whatever you want, so long as I get to walk free out of here.  We both know shanix aren’t what we’re after, and information is worth far more than any amount of shanix.”

“Only if it’s accurate.”  Longarm countered, getting up and leveling a disapproving look at Swindle.  “False information is less than worthless.”

“Would I lie?”  Demanded the other mech, placing his hand over his spark and looking hurt.  Longarm just looked at him wearily before venting hard.  Swindle nodded.  “You’re absolutely right, yes I would.”

“You’d sell your own hard drive.”  Longarm muttered.  “Verify the data, and I’ll decide what to do from there.  If it’s legitimate and current… I can say I got it off of you in a struggle, but you ultimately overpowered me and escaped.”

“You drive a hard bargain there, Longarm… but!”  Swindle pulled a datapad out and plugged the dataslug into it before holding it out to Longarm so he could check over it.  “It’s to be expected from an intel agent.  Bots like you… You don’t get to where you are by being nice… Or by trusting people.”

“Which is why I do not intend to do either.”  Stated Longarm as he took the datapad, glaring at Swindle before looking down at it.  Real-time updates scrolled across the screen, and the previous movements that Longarm was aware of seemed to match up.  A slow nod was given, and the datapad exchanged hands once more.  “How long does that dataslug provide updates for?”

“Oh, about another week or so.”  Swindle replied, waving his hand dismissively.  “After that you need a new code or you get locked out.  It should be enough to buy me a ticket off-world, right?”

This time Longarm’s huff was mostly irritated.  He knew that Swindle knew that this was more than enough for him to make up a lie about what happened in Vos.  Turning down this offer would be, frankly, idiotic.  Longarm grit his denta.  One more caveat would make it an even deal.

“I tell the Council you escaped, let you go off-world, and Cliffjumper gets to tell the truth about your casino operation.”  Longarm said, pressing his digits together and looking over the tips of them at Swindle.  The Decepticon’s expression faltered before hardening to a thin line.

“Figures you’d know about that one too.”  Swindle grumbled.  “You drive a hard bargain, Longarm.  Why?”

“Troop movements and the shutdown of an operation are close to the same value as a way off-world.”  He replied simply, shrugging.  Unnatural as it was, he quirked a smile in Swindles direction.  “Not all of us get the chance to get out of here, you know.  You are or will be a wanted mech in the Autobot Commonwealth, but you will be able to get out of here.  I won’t.  I think it’s a fair trade, don’t you?”

Swindle frowned before letting out a slow vent, shaking his helm.  “You’re really in deep, eh?”  He asked, earning himself a completely blank look from Longarm before he waved his hand dismissively.  “All right, all right.  You have yourself a deal, Agent Longarm.  Now, you and Cliffjumper need to get  _ out of Vos _ .  Once you’re gone, I’m going off-planet, understood?”

“Crystal clear, afthole.”  Longarm retorted shortly, getting up and glaring at the bodyguards who took his arms and started leading him away.  He was more or less deposited near one of the main casinos, where Cliffjumper was hanging out outside of.

“Hey, Longarm.”  He said, waving.  “Guess who was stealing?”

“Swindle?”  Longarm asked, brushing off his armor plating as if he was trying to get the feel of the rough hands of the bodyguards off of his frame.  “Because he was the result of my mission too.”

Cliffjumper only shook his helm and laughed in response to that, and started to head back to the transit station.  Longarm waited for a few seconds before following.  If all went well, the trip back to Iacon and Fortress Maximus should be uneventful enough for him to finish his report before they arrived.


	7. The Road to Iacon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Longarm and Cliffjumper return to Iacon. The trip is the opposite of uneventful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a little shorter! Enjoy :D!

The trip back to Iacon and Fortress Maximus was not uneventful.  In fact, it was fairly eventful… but Longarm still managed to get most of his report finished before the events started.  He had stopped typing and yawned, rubbing his optics and looking down at his datapad.  The text swam slightly, and after squinting at the datapad to better see what he had written, Longarm groaned.  His report was starting to devolve into gibberish.  Turning to ask Cliffjumper if he could help him finish it, Longarm noticed that the red mech had fallen into recharge, pressed against the wall and snoring softly.  It wouldn’t hurt to get some recharge, Longarm reasoned as he settled down into his seat, closing his optics.

_ Discomfort coiled through his frame - a strange sense of cramping and then stretching that he was used to, but only in his arms.  A sense of urgency was connected to it, and then panic.  He was too  _ **_large_ ** _ and the transport was too  _ **_small_ ** _ and he had to get  _ **_out_ ** _ otherwise they would  _ **_find him_ ** _.  Raising his hands to shield his faceplate, he was greeted by wicked claws made for tearing instead of his typical blunt Autobot hands.  Each digit was slowly flexed - only three of them, and each responded to his commands.  They were his hands, and when he went to touch his faceplate there was nothing but an empty void.  Somehow, panic did not set in with that.  No, the panic entered Longarm’s processor when he heard movement and a light was turned onto his strange and alien frame.  He heard someone cry that the Decepticons were there, and no matter how hard he tried to speak, Longarm found himself silent.  Curling up the best he could, Longarm rocked back and forth before he felt something wet drip down his side.  Touching it, he felt no wound - and examining his (Primus help him) claws he saw no trace of Energon.  Instead the liquid was a deep purple, and the texture almost seemed to be… paint. _

_ Frantically, he began to scrape at his alien frame - trying to remove as much of the color as he could.  It clung to him like it was alive - consciously trying to cover up the soft teal and grey of his armor, replacing it with Decepticon purple and black.  Where the goo - why did he think it was paint at first?  It was clearly some sort of slime - passed over his abdomen, the teal biolights changed to a deep red - the color of organic blood.  Desperation clutched Longarm’s spark as the goo crept upwards over his frame, intent on reaching is Autobrand. _

_ “No.  No, please.”  He whimpered, claws raking at the slime and painting gashes into his frame.  “Please don’t-” _

_ It was too late.  Whatever it was, the substance had crept over his Autobrand, changing it into the badge of the enemy.  Longarm curled over, shaking as the color change solidified.  He stayed there for a moment, energon leaking from the wounds he had caused.  For a few seconds, the dull silence that always came after a panic attack settled over Longarm before he felt the substance coating his frame start to move again.  He didn’t seem to have the energy to fight it off, and merely whimpered pathetically as it covered the self-inflicted gashes in his frame, sealing the leaks before delving inside.  It is then that Longarm reacts, frame tensing up and then jerking away from the intrusion.  The whatever-it-was flowed into his energon lines, filling his frame with the same sort of… corruption that was changing his frame into a Decepticon.  When it reached his spark chamber, there was nothing that Longarm could do as he convulsed.  If his mouth hadn’t disappeared with his faceplates, he felt as if he would purge.  His spark itself was being rewritten by this…  _ **_virus_ ** _ that had attacked him. _

_ Twitching, Longarm felt as if his chest was burning - almost like he had been branded.  He was surrounded by light now, but beyond that there was darkness.  He raised his alien helm to try and squint past the spotlight, seeing nothing but burning red optics as a voice thundered in his processor:  _ **_Rise, Decepticon, and follow my lead_ ** _. _

_ Whose voice was that?  He had heard it before, that was certain.  Whose voice… _

Longarm jolted awake the moment Cliffjumper shook him.  His optics (yes, two of them.  Two of them in soft Autobot teal-blue) were wide and panicked, and instinct took over as his hands reached up and fastened around Cliffjumper’s neck.  The red Autobot was too shocked to react as Longarm pushed him forward, putting his weight on the point where his hands were gripping his neck.  There were enough vital components in the neck that crushing it could lead to offlining, and the metal slowly started to buckle under Longarm’s hands.  Cliffjumper’s vox started to spit static as he fought back, legs pulling up and kicking Longarm in the stomach.  There was enough force to knock the other back, but Longarm’s grip never faded.  Other Autobots on the transport grabbed Longarm to try and pull him back, but he let go of Cliffjumper’s neck with one hand to turn sharply, using his still-extended arm like a whip.

It was enough, though.  Cliffjumper was able to pry Longarm’s hand off of his neck, and wrapped the arm around his shoulder, pulling Longarm towards him.  It seemed the other mech was too distracted to extend his arm to counter the motion.  Cliffjumper’s helm collided  _ hard _ with Longarm’s, and the two mechs stood there, dazed.  Cliff was rubbing his neck and panting, while Longarm clutched the front of his helm and started to shake.

“Cliff?  Oh Primus I- What did I do?”  Longarm asked, voice small as he took a hesitant step towards Cliffjumper.  There was a dent in his helm, and the red circle on his helm had a crack across it.  Nobody seemed to be leaking, but Longarm had scraped paint off of his side in his sleep.  Surprisingly, Cliffjumper didn’t flinch away as Longarm approached him.  In fact, he did the opposite - opening his arms and supporting the larger mech as he slumped forward and started to sob.  Dimly, Longarm was aware of Cliffjumper assuring everyone that he was just a little freaked out.  That he had a rough time in the mission.  That he wasn’t normally like this.  That it would be  _ taken care of _ when they returned to Iacon.

“Don’t tell Highbrow.”  Longarm whimpered as Cliff held him and the red mech nodded, pulling him closer.

“I won’t.”  He assured him.  “I swear I won’t.”


	8. After Vos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens to Longarm after he returns from Vos

As far as Longarm could tell, Cliffjumper had kept his promise.  No Elite Guard mechs came knocking on his door to arrest him, no appearing in Multi-Circuit Court and getting court-ordered psychologist appointments… nothing.  Somehow, the lack of action against him made Longarm’s paranoia about the situation  _ worse _ .  When he returned to work and saw Cliffjumper again - a few days after returning from Vos - he pulled him aside, quite literally.  Longarm had hidden and used his extension ability to grab Cliffjumper and pull him into the hiding place.

“You didn’t tell anyone?”  Longarm hissed, while Cliff rubbed his arm and checked for dents.  “Cliffjumper! You didn’t tell anyone?”

“No!  Primus, you have a strong grip.”  He replied, also in a whisper. “I said I wouldn’t.  Why would I go back on that?”

“I- I don’t…”  Longarm trailed off, and Cliffjumper gave him an understanding smile and patted his arm.

“I get it.  You had that annoying part of you that wouldn’t shut up, right?”  Cliff asked, and when Longarm nodded, he nodded. “I thought so. Now, let’s go turn in our reports.”

Since they had been paired up for the mission, Longarm was present for Cliffjumper’s oral report and had to stifle a laugh when the red mech just said ‘It was fraggin’ Swindle again’ instead of… actually giving a report.  Highbrow Prime did not look amused in the slightest until he looked down at the datapad Cliffjumper turned in and found that same statement, but with a fully-written report of his findings underneath that. He was dismissed, and then it was Longarm’s turn.  Due to the nature of his mission, he was to give his report alone - but Cliffjumper gave him the double thumbs up while he left, so Longarm was not as nervous as he could have been. Standing, squaring his shoulders, and raising his helm to look at a place that wasn’t quite Highbrow Prime’s optics, but was close enough to fool the vast majority of mechanisms into thinking he was making optic contact, Longarm began to speak.

“... And while Swindle was escaping, I managed to grab this dataslug.  I don’t know how much longer it will be viable for, but it seems to have accurate troop movements.”  Longarm finished, handing Highbrow the dataslug. The Prime looked it over for a few moments before venting quietly.

“You struck a deal with him.”  It wasn’t a question, and Longarm let his optics drop to the floor.  “I can’t say I’m surprised. Well done, Longarm. This will be incredibly useful in our ongoing effort to stamp out whatever is left of the Decepticons.  Is Swindle…?”

“Part of our deal was that he was to be permitted to go off-world.”  Longarm admitted. “By this time he is likely out of the Autobot Commonwealth.  I’m sorry, sir, I know I should have brought him in, but I didn’t want to risk losing the chance at this data.”

Longarm’s optics were fixed on the ground now, and his hands were clasped together behind his back.  When Highbrow sighed again, he flinched slightly, optics closing like he was expecting to be hit or otherwise punished.  His optics opened again in surprise when Highbrow cleared his vox and spoke: “I suppose it can’t be helped. Ideally you would have been able to bring both in, but your decision was sound.  Well done.”

“Th-thank you, sir.”  Longarm said, clasping his hands a bit tighter to resist the urge to start moving.  Relief at not being punished combined with joy at being told he did well to create a warm sensation in his spark.  “Am I dismissed?”

“You are, yes, but the Minister of Science asked to speak with you while you were away on your mission.  Please go see him.” Highbrow said before going back to his datapads. Longarm saluted and left the room, taking a moment to bounce on his toes slightly before walking to the science department.

He hadn’t actually ever been in that part of Autobot HQ before, and almost got lost more than once while looking around the building.  Unlike the Intelligence Offices, the lighting was much harsher - pure white light shining down from fluorescent tubes on the ceiling every few feet.  Some of the hallways had no windows, and more than once Longarm noticed a scientist sitting in the dark of an office, illuminated only by the blue of their screens.  At the end of one such windowless hallway that was darker than the others, a couple of the lights weren’t on, and on closer observation had actually been  _ removed _ , Longarm found the door to the Minister’s office.  Hesitantly, Longarm knocked, looking around for bodyguards.  He had heard most Primes didn’t have bodyguards because Prime was a military rank and were typically had enough combat training to keep themselves safe, but Ministers were technically civilians.  Nobody answered, so Longarm knocked again, with a little more force.

That time the door swung inward abruptly and Longarm jolted slightly, taken aback.  He reset his optics, stuttering out an apology before he was able to process that  _ Perceptor _ was standing in front of him, expression blank as ever.  Glasses still perched on his faceplate with no discernable way to be held up.  Inscrutable as always.

“Agent-Longarm.  Highbrow-Prime-relayed-my-message-then.  Come-inside.” The microscope stated, walking away from the door to let Longarm in.  The office was not quite as dimly lit as the hallway it was down, but most of the light seemed to be the sort of soft ambient light Longarm favored.  Decoration was sparse to the point of being minimalist, except for the large desk that Perceptor had sat down behind - but what drew Longarm’s attention was the sniper rifle behind the desk.  Squinting slightly, Longarm estimated the time it would take Perceptor to turn around and grab it if someone were to attack. It wasn’t much time. “Sit.”

Shaken out of his thoughts by Perceptor’s order, Longarm looked at the chair in front of the desk and slowly sat down behind it.  Perceptor steepled his digits in front of his face, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk before speaking.

“It-is-highly-probable-you-were-unaware-of-my-position-as-Minister-of-Science.”  Perceptor started, optics narrow behind his glasses. “I-cannot-fault-you-for-that.  I-make-an-effort-to-keep-my-work-and-personal-life-separate. That-being-said. Your-use-of-me-at-Trypticon-prison-while-you-were-antagonizing-Wasp-was-out-of-line.  Do-not-do-something-like-that-again-without-first-contacting-me-or-my-division. Fortunately-for-you. My-status-as-Minister-was-not-compromised. Yesterday-I-also-received-notification-that-Wasp-volunteered-for-experiments-on-his-frame.  That-was-likely-your-doing. I-appreciate-your-assistance. But-next-time. Be-aware-that-your-actions-have-consequences.”

“Yes, Sir.”  Longarm said, dipping his helm down.  “Forgive me. You and I seem to be the only examples of accepted divergent behavior in the Autobots, as far as I can tell, and I- I made a mistake.  I’m sorry.”

Perceptor lay his hands down, one over the other.  Longarm looked at his slim digits instead of bothering to try and look at his faceplate.  “You-are-forgiven. It-could-have-been worse. And-I-understand-your-reasoning. You-are-dismissed.  I-am-sorry-about-the-lights. Some-were-buzzing-so-I-had-them-removed-instead-of-waiting-for-the-replacements.”

That explained the darkness in the same way the sniper rifle explained why there were no guards.  Longarm found himself staring at it, trying to take in as many details of it as he could. The entire weapon was pristine, but as he stared at it Longarm had the sense that it wasn’t pristine because it was there for display.  Far from it, in fact - the rifle was pristine because its owner was an adept sniper who would not settle for subpar equipment. With a small smile, Perceptor stood and got the rifle down, handling it with practiced ease that both made the rifle seem weightless and lended weight to Longarm’s theory.

“I-am-not-yet-a-retired-sniper.”  Perceptor started. “But-I-am-technically-a-civilian.  Therefore. I-am-required-to-have-bodyguards-with-me-when-I-attend-functions.  If-you-improve-your-combat-skills-enough-to-qualify. I-would-like-to-have-you-join-me.  Having-an-intelligence-agent-with-me-would-make-them-far-more-bearable. You-and-I-are-kindred-sparks.  Longarm. Highbrow-Prime-underestimated-you.”

Perceptor put the rifle back on the wall before sitting down and returning to work - almost immediately getting re-absorbed in whatever equation he had been working on when Longarm interrupted.  The other mech waited for a few moments before standing up and leaving the room as quietly as he could. There was now a lot for Longarm to think about, and he turned all the information he had gotten over and over in his helm as he absently walked to the training rooms.  Perceptor did have a point, and Longarm was admittedly curious about the Minister of Science. Becoming a bodyguard was a path plenty of Intel Agents took, especially because the majority of the Elite Guard were too busy with military endeavours to take on the responsibility… not to mention that almost every Intel Agent who became a bodyguard later made it to at least the rank of Minor.  Longarm had a private smile as he started practicing his (admittedly rusty) combat techniques. At some point, he was probably going to make Highbrow eat his words. Was Perceptor manipulating him? Maybe, but now Longarm was determined.


End file.
